


as Spring opens

by OldShrewsburyian



Category: Foyle's War
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Gen, London, Post-War, Spring, spiritual kinship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 12:27:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9548996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldShrewsburyian/pseuds/OldShrewsburyian
Summary: Spring, 1947: Christopher Foyle meets his namesake.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was created in response to an anonymous request; the chapters alternate between showing Foyle's perspective and showing Sam's, because I couldn't figure out how else to work it. My timeline is based on the fact that the London conference on Palestine featured in "Trespass" started in September 1946. Sam as a reader of crime fiction is borrowed from Kivrin.

It was one of those radiant spring days London sometimes affords, where the children playing in the rubble and the flowers blooming in the parks all seemed part of the same celebration. The compactly-built man in the dark cobalt suit walks with a jaunty step, despite being burdened with a collection of parcels under one arm. Emerging from Gracechurch Street, he chooses to encumber himself still further, purchasing yellow tulips and purple crocuses from a man outside Monument station. Thus incongruously laden, he boards his bus.

The bus makes its trundling way south of the river, and Foyle turns his face to the sun that pours through its grimy windows. He acknowledges to himself that his holiday mood is in part attributable to having turned his back on his office, leaving his telephone, his letters, and his secretary to take care of themselves. Deprived of his closest ally in the winter, and his closest assistant scant weeks later, he’s felt more keenly than before the necessity of fighting an institution in order to get its own work done. Retirement, now… but when he had mentioned this idea to Andrew during their last evening together—fishing any day of the week, leave the world to run as best it may—his son had laughed. 

Alighting on the broken pavement of Camberwell Road, he cannot suppress his feeling of misgiving. Sam is no more a Londoner than he is. And yet she is living here, amid smells of boiled cabbage and the shouts of costermongers. He walks briskly on. Turning into the mews where the Wainwrights live, he breathes deeply, taking in the gardens, the drying laundry, the cooking dinners. He knocks on the green door; it is opened by a stranger.

“Hullo!” says the plump woman. He assesses her expression of surprise as habitual. 

“Good afternoon. Foyle.”

“Oh! Friend of the family, then?” Her question is supplemented by a glance at the flowers.

“That’s right. And you are…?”

“Oh! Well! Come in, do. I’m just over from next door. Lydia Johnson, that’s me. I’ve a pie in the oven that I’m a bit worried about, to be honest, but I haven’t liked to leave her and…” 

“Quite all right,” says Foyle. “Take all the time you need.”

“That _is_ kind,” says Mrs. Johnson, with the air of someone who expected nothing else. She bustles into the back room, and he occupies himself with the divestment of coat and hat.

“All serene,” says the friendly neighbor, returning to the living room. “The little one’s asleep; she’s expecting you.”

“Right.” Foyle holds the door open for her, and closes it softly in her wake. The silent house seems filled with small noises: children, playing in the mews outside; birds, experimenting with their spring songs; the gentle creaking of curtain rods and window frames. Foyle takes a deep breath, and walks back.

Standing in the doorway, he feels his shoulders collapse with relief. She’s sitting up in the bed, grinning her one-cornered grin that comes when she’s not quite sure of her ground. She looks, he thinks, extraordinarily young, extraordinarily like the golden-haired girl she was when he first knew her.

“Hullo,” says Sam, and, rather to his astonishment, proffers her cheek to be kissed. 

“Hullo.” Foyle salutes her on both cheeks. “You’re looking well.”

“Oh good,” says Sam, with palpable pleasure. “I’m never sure if people are just being polite when they say that.”

“Hm! Well. Now you know.”

She smiles, a little tremulously. “I’d apologize for your godson sleeping through your arrival, but it seems to be all he does. Sleep, I mean. And eat.”

“All proceeding according to plan, then.”


	2. Chapter 2

Sam buries her face in the flowers, in part because she is afraid she is going to cry. She inhales deeply, focusing on the silky texture of the tulips against her skin, the faint, warm scent of the crocuses. 

“Shall I put those in water?”

“Oh, would you?” She blinks rapidly, but does not have to force her smile. “They’re lovely; thank you.”

“Glad you like them.” 

Sam relaxes against the pillows. She feels as though something slightly off-kilter has been righted, feels released—for the first time in how long?—from any need to play a role. 

The sound of the vase being set down on the night table makes her realize she’d dozed off. But he smiles at her as though he hadn’t noticed, or as though it doesn’t matter.

Blushing a little, Sam turns her attention to the larger and heavier of the brown paper parcels on the bed. “Oh!” Her exclamation as the paper falls away is involuntary; the book is clearly an old one, its cover embossed. The nursery rhymes are illustrated with pen-and-ink drawings, simultaneously weighty and elegant. They must, she thinks, date to his own childhood.

“It’s beautiful,” says Sam fervently. “And this isn’t economy paper.”

He smiles. “The antiquarian was delighted to find someone wanted it.” He nods towards the smaller package on her lap. “That one’s for you.”

“Really?” Halfway through the knot, she stops, suddenly self-conscious. “Really, sir, you shouldn’t…”

“Nonsense.”

“Well…” She picks at the twine. “It’s very kind of you.” He ducks his head obliquely, as if the remark has materialized in front of her, and he can avoid looking directly at it.

“Miss Pym Disposes,” reads Sam from the cover. “I haven’t read this one.”

“I told the bookseller you had all the Harriet Vanes.” 

“It’s perfect,” says Sam. “Really. I sometimes think I’ll go out of my mind, just puttering about the house. I’m supposed to rest, you see. Which is fine, but… I don’t suppose you’ve any unsolvable cases at the moment?”

“Left the files on my desk.” The corner of his mouth quirks up, and she laughs in response.

“Pity. I could have solved the whole thing from my armchair… or the bed, in this case.” She smoothes the counterpane with both hands.

“I’ll be sure to bring the dossier on the trained cormorants next time.”

“Would you? Come again, that is? It would be lovely… I might even be up to making tea.”   

“It’s settled.” 

Just as Sam is swallowing a yawn, her son begins to grizzle. 

“Oh dear.” Experience has given her reason to fear that the small, snuffling grunts may rise to a wail of outrage, not easily calmed. “I’ll get up.”

“You needn’t.” What surprises her is not his sincerity, not even his matter-of-fact readiness to help. These she has always known in him. What surprises her is the sudden, transparent openness in a face so often closed to the world. 

“Yes,” says Sam, inarticulately. But this is all he needs. She is conscious of holding very still as he crosses to the bassinet, afraid of breaking in on his anticipation. _There is something holy in this_ , thinks Sam, and then wonders if she’s guilty of irreverence.

The next moment resolves her doubts. With a delicacy that she has rarely seen, Christopher Foyle bends to lift her infant son into his arms. Even before he turns back to face her, she sees the lines of his face soften, into something deeper than contentment. Small Christopher’s cries rise in pitch, and then subside, as he nestles instinctively into the human warmth of his godfather’s shoulder.

“Well,” says Mr. Foyle, and he smiles at her.

“Thank you,” says Sam, despite a lump in her throat, and she means it, she means it in ways she may never be able to adequately express to him. But his eyes are soft on her, and her son fits snugly into the crook of his arm. The spring sunshine embraces them all.


End file.
